Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I’m on break.

…

I’m on break.

…

I am on break.

…

I am on a break.

I’m enjoying my break. Loving my break. Enthralled with my break. Enthused with my break. Break. Getting some rest. Lying down. Break. Chilling. Vibing. Snoozing. Unwinding. Break. Settling back. Simmering down. Sitting around. Taking a breather. Taking it easy. 

Break.

I am on a break. 

I…am on…a break.

This is a nice break. This break might even be the nicest break anyone has ever taken in the history of breaks. This break is amazing. Are you enjoying your break? Why yes I am thank you for asking.

Enjoying my break.

Voluntarily on break. 

…

Voluntarily on break. 

Voluntarily…on break.

…Voluntarily. 

…on break.

…I consent to this break. Which is strange because why would I even feel the need to say I consent to a break? Something like that makes it sound like I’m being forced into this break—but really, I’m not, promise.

 This break is good for me. Really good. Breaks are good for me. I am happy on break.

I am very happy to be on this break. 

Ratchet stared blankly at his grey ceiling, brain idly processing the insipid rotations of the ceiling fan. Ears laid flat against his hard pillow, faintly picking up the small whoosh es of the blades. He took a breath, lungs filling with stale air and the faint fusty taste of dust caking his dry tongue. A muscle along his lips twitched, the need to cough out the offending particles rose but he couldn’t find it within himself to really care to do so all that much. 

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

He smacked his dry lips together, cringing slightly at the bitter taste of his arid mouth as a tongue slid hazily across the top layer of his teeth. Prodding the points of sharp canines and itching at the edges grey gums until they twitched. Breath hot in his mouth, the fur surrounding his lips matted and unkempt. A fine line of grime and crust and whatever else had long formed along his eyelids, the uncomfortable lickings of what felt like miniature flames danced along his cornea itching like hell. An overall sense of filth seemed to permeate from his entire being. 

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

Untrimmed claws struggled to lay still, awkwardly hovering between a state of restlessness and dormancy. One hand idly twisted a piece of cruddy blanket between the digits, pinching and twisting and pulling at the fabric. Shaking slightly as more and more fragile threads keeping it together gradually came undone under the sharp menstruations of the nails. A second hand laid atop a ratty nest of tangled fur, digits drumming idly against the sternum lying beneath a once strong chest which now felt hollow. 

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

A head was lolled to the side, unfocused eyes flitting from the blank ceiling to a mirror haphazardly propped up against a wall. He regarded the old thing with unfocused eyes. He had found it in an alleyway during a walk, small cracks near the base of the glass and one side of the wooden frame had been chipped away leaving it lopsided, a new coat of paint was desperately needed and it smelled faintly of rot. An old piece of junk. 

It had been dumped here, that much was obvious, whoever owned it previously had no further need nor want for the thing. Was most likely seen as nothing more than clutter taking up space in what was presumably an already limited amount of living space. A once revolutionary piece of engineering now deemed obsolete following the creation of the Holomirror. 

It essentially does the same thing as a mirror would, only it reflects a person’s likeness in three dimensions through a neat little projector. The image isn’t all that clear and earlier models had a bad flickering problem but who would want a boring and outdated two dimensional mirror when you could have the new and improved three dimensional one? Sweeten the deal even further by making one that could fit right into your pocket and you got people throwing out their old mirrors by the dozen. 

Just like this one, an old piece of junk. Charming, he had thought with a little smile.  A perfect fixer upper to keep his twitchy hands busy, he reasoned upon lugging the thing home.

A small wrench was wedged into the portion of the missing frame, evening the thing out poorly. The cracks had webbed their way towards the middle of the glass, splintering across the surface and slightly warping the reflections produced. More of the frame had rotted away, he could no longer tell if the original color was a light brown or a dark green. 

Tomorrow , he’d tell himself, I’ll fix it tomorrow .

That had been about three months ago. Maybe more.

Through smudges and dim lighting, Ratchet could just barely recognize the figure staring back at him. A small part of him wanted to recoil at the sight, a larger part of him had already come to terms with what laid there.

He blinked. 

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

Another breath of air, another need to cough.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

I’m on break , his mind repeated, I’m on break.

If a random someone had grabbed another random someone at random and had asked that someone randomly to use one word to describe how things had been going as of late, that random someone would then tell that other random someone that the word they’d use would be quiet . 

Quiet.

No panic, no fear, no anarchy, no violence, no wanton destruction, no immorality, no ruination, no wickedness, no foul play, no misfortune, no loss— nothing , no nothing.

It was just quiet. 

Very, very quiet . 

It was as if whoever the poor soul manning the Great Machine in the Sky which dictated all happenings of the universe was suddenly snapped out of whatever gripping daydream they were trapped in. Flailing wildly, frantically wiping away at the thick glop of drool which oozed from their gaping maw. Sitting so rigidly straight—shooting to attention with such panicked fervor that it caused a plume of dust to poof out around them. Scooting forward harshly, wincing at the sharp EEEK! of their chair scraping against the ceramic plates of the floor. 

And they finally, finally decided to reach a shaky hand out to twist the knob counterclockwise on a dial. A yellowed piece of sticker paper hung loosely below that recently turned dial, its surface marred and faded from time, reading: ‘The dial which plummets everything and everyone into a never ending cycle of destruction and violence.’ 

Another piece of sticker paper hung below that one reading: ‘DO NOT LEAVE ON FOR LONG PERIODS OF TIME!’ They winced upon reading it. 

Things were nice, things were slow. The overall pace of life was no longer this neverending high speed race towards a grotesquely violent certain death. Now it was just…normal, people could walk outside their homes for more than thirty minutes without having this constant fear that the very ground before them would suddenly implode from a stray ion bomb. 

Top of the line disaster survival training was no longer a requirement for citizens just wanting to head down to their local supermarket. If someone wanted to pick up some fresh radishes for a nice soup recipe they had come across in their Cooking For Blarg-Headed Frat Monkeys holo-book the night before they could do just that. 

Walk in, find the radishes, try and fail to initiate some form of small talk with the cashier to fill the awkward air, be embarrassed, buy the radishes, go home, cook them, eat them. Simple as that. No giant metal claw violently tearing through the ceiling and ripping it away with one powerful pull, no endless swarm of robots flooding the area incinerating everything in sight, no maniacal cackling in the background, none of it. 

It was confusing, it was bizarre, it was jarring, it was baffling, it was bewildering, it wasn’t normal. What should be perceived as normal life to everyone else was the complete opposite for the denizens of this universe. What should be seen as the everyday humdrum happenings of life is a completely foreign concept to these people. 

Living through so many years of chaos and destruction, worrying about which block is going to be obliterated by the next carpet bombing, fearing the day your ears pick up on that familiar cackling once more, dreading the moment you catch another glimpse of that big green forehead—all of it, its all molded these people into these cynical worrywarts. 

With good reason, Nefarious had the universe stamped under his metal heel for years. Twisting and digging it deeper and deeper into its face absolutely relishing in the pain and misery and fear his conquests inspired. He had them petrified, he had them panicked, he had them on their toes constantly. 

Entire special divisions of hundreds upon hundreds of militaries across the stars had to be scrambled together just to respond to the threat of him . His mere existence breeded dread, his presence alone strangled entire solar systems with a thick cloud of terror. 

Contingency plans were scribbled down, contingency plans for those contingency plans were hotly debated, special weapons were designed, entirely new armies were trained, state of the art machinery was pushed to its absolute limit in a desperate hope that Allied production could ever manage to reach the Nefarious War Engine’s seemingly endless amount of output, espionage ops were conducted, every second of surveillance footage was combed through and combed through again and combed through again in a desperate hope to predict his next move, an entire universe was united together to stand up against him . 

Which should make an onlooker feel hopeful, should fill them with a certain pride and righteous vigor that there’s such an allied front against this Nefarious war engine. United through a desire to stand up to evil, a desire to safeguard a better tomorrow, a desire to stick up for the little guy. One single dream shared by the collective, the great unifying event to bring about peace amongst us all. 

Except it didn’t. 

There was no hope, no pride, no desire to safeguard the future, no unifying event, there was nothing but a feeling of absolute fear. Governments could plaster as many inspiring advertisements on every street corner, every screen, every television channel, every radio station, every soda can, every Blitz Burger bag, every intergalactic and subgalactic and whatever-the-hell-galactic travel brochure—everywhere; No one paid attention, no one cared. Everyone was too busy looking out for themselves to give any of these ad campaigns any time of their day. Why would you care about the heroic story of ‘John Goodguy’ and how he’s doing his part when you just watched an entire planet get hollowed out a week prior. 

Why would somebody care for or believe in this unbreakable strong face their governments were plastering on, this unrelenting resolve to conquer evil—why would they believe in it when the cracks were so easily visible? 

Why would the people care to listen to their government’s endless reassurances that everything was completely under control when things so very clearly weren’t? Who would believe that the trembling hand pointing the knife towards the enemy was brave? 

Who cared about this great collective idea when Nefarious was at your doorstep? He had all of existence cursing his name, all of existence shaking uncontrollably driving themselves mad thinking about what his next evil plan could possibly be. 

No one could have predicted it was disappearing. 

No one could have predicted someone as addicted to the spotlight and the chaos it ensued such as Nefarious to just up and leave without a trace.  Not him, that’s not like him. He wouldn’t just stand up, crack his back, shrug his shoulders, smack his lips, swipe the dust off his knees, pack up his bags and just screw off. Not him.

But he did. 

Nefarious just… left. 

The same Nefarious who had hacked together a weapon capable of imploding the suns, who had created the Hypersonic Brainwave Scrambler, who had flirted with the idea of just ducttaping a hydrogen bomb to the forehead of the machine, who had flirted even more with the idea of duct taping three hydrogen bombs to it, who wanted to create a loofah that melts the skin of any organic foolish enough to use it, who wanted to devise a warship capable of ramming straight through planets three times its size with ease—this same Nefarious who was the living embodiment of insanity. 

This manic amalgamation of hate and metal is one hundred percent, without a doubt, completely and cripplingly addicted to being loud. Which is why no one could even hope to wrap their heads around why he was being quiet . 

Despite all the uncertainty, everyone had slowly come to the realization that things were allowed to be…normal now, whatever that may be. It had been slow at first, no one truly believing this newfound break from the chaos would last very long. Some gave it a month, others gave it a week, it wasn't rare to find those giving it a measly three days. 

A week had passed, nothing horrible happened. 

Another week, still nothing.

A third week, silence. 

A fourth had passed, puzzlingly quiet. 

It wasn’t until the end of the first month of this quietness that the idea of the universe finally giving everyone a break started to become more mainstream. 

People smiled, families laughed, old friends drank, new friends shared stories, new love blossomed, old flames reignited. People went out more, bars filled up, amusement parks had waits, theaters were packed, sidewalks were busy, traffic increased, skies were filled—people began to live, actually live. A sense of normalcy settled over the universe, a newfound calm which lulled the people into a state of utter relaxation. 

This latest quiet, although off putting at first, was quickly becoming the next Big Thing. It was as if all stress in the universe had completely evaporated. Almost everybody was completely in love with this new change. 

Almost everybody. 

It was odd, odd that a complete lack of any stress whatsoever could have such a profoundly adverse effect on a person’s mental state.

Odd that the complete absence of stress would, in turn, make somebody substantially more stressed than whenever the normal amount of stress was milling about. Odd that such a complete sense of contentment surrounding the world felt so much more suffocating than anything else this person had ever experienced in their life. A complete and utter shutdown, a total loss of focus nothing short of a catastrophe, a meltdown, a downward spiral, a maddening, an emotional tantrum—whatever label a spectator watching from the outside in would deem most appropriate to this person’s current state. 

Ratchet felt stuck, he felt trapped. Nothing to do, no one to save, no one to shoot, nothing to fix, everyone too busy with rebuilding their own fractured realities to distract himself with. Life as it were previously, in all of its chaos and insanity, had been therapeutic for Ratchet. Its nonsense had become routine, its violence something he could rely on to never change on him. 

The explosions, the bullets, the blood, the sweat, the bruises, the fractures, the screaming, the snarls, the adrenaline, the thrill, the death—all of it, it was his normal. More importantly, it had become his distraction . Always something to fix, always something to shoot, always someone to help, always something to kill, always somebody else he could set his mind on. Always, always something else lying before him to utterly focus on. 

Anything to keep his thoughts from drifting back to himself . 

His regrets, his fears, his actions, his choices, every time he pulled the trigger, every time he watched a head implode, every time he’d seen a body rip in two, every time their cries pierced his ears, every small glimpse of that brief horrified flash in their eyes before he brought the wrench down, every garbled final breath, every erratic convulsion as the body rapidly processed it was dying, every time he’d let someone down, every time someone stabbed him in the back—all of it. It never left his head, festering in the recesses of his mind eating away at him little by little with each passing day. There was no need to pay attention to it, there was always someone else out there more deserving of his help. 

No need to dwell on who and what Ratchet is.

More importantly, no need to dwell on him . 

The first month following the utter catastrophe that was the multi-dimensional fiasco Ratchet had gotten himself tangled into had gone by alright. A small break after his most recent dance was death wasn’t unwelcome, he had gotten uncomfortably close to biting the bullet one too many times throughout the ordeal. The plethora of bruises and cuts littering his body from head to tail definitely needed some time to heal, just shifting his body even in small increments shot a jolt of magma throughout his system. 

With a huff, Ratchet swallowed past the knot forming in his throat and accepted the small break. Things would get back to normal soon enough. 

The usual celebrations and overall fanfare proceeded as normal, crowds upon crowds chanting his name, colorful confetti, parades clogging up every street corner, reporters of all types shoving themselves so uncomfortably close that the stinging scent of heavy aftershave assaulted his sensitive nostrils, and the seemingly endless numbers of politicians and city officials and government suits thanking him for his service and fawning over just how brave he had been. 

Ratchet found himself constantly wrestling back the urge to parrot their words back to their overly rosy and sweaty faces, hearing the same corporate word-vomit for so long it had practically burned itself into his skull with a plasma cutter. A younger him would have done so without missing a beat, but he just barely held it back. He liked to think he matured somewhat over the years.

Part of him missed mocking these puppets as they practically worshiped the ground he walked, cackling at their shocked faces and the rapid flabbering of their fat jaws as they heaved to choke out a response. It had been funny the first few years of this hero business, but the media fallout and constant gossip online of ‘bad boy Ratchet’ sticking it to the big man in office grew tiresome as his battles grew more and more violent over the years. 

Used to be a clear good vs bad, cartoonishly evil villains with ridiculous master plans vs the green as grass lovably snarky main character. It was nice, made things feel like those old holo-pictures he watched as a kid. 

Lines had blurred since then. He had blurred them. 

Shaking his head, he plastered on a boyish grin he hoped didn’t look as fake as it had felt,  welcoming their words with a laugh and a strong handshake. 

Was it all a bit annoying? Sure. No one really wants to be hounded for hours upon hours after nearly dying in increasingly gruesome ways fifteen different times. Even still, his ego couldn’t help but be stroked just the smallest bit. Not many people around could say they had saved all of reality, this dimension and countless others, with nothing more than a wrench and his brain. Arrogance be damned. 

By the second month, the constant media attention had died down but not enough to warrant him or the topic of him saving the dimension to leave the spotlight completely. Street reporters had buzzed off, politicians had gotten their words in and their greasy phone numbers into his device—those of which hadn’t approached him yet were met with a glare, and the parades had long ceased. Pieces of confetti littered streets and the sides of buildings were still covered in paint and colored dust, specialized crews consisting of bright yellow, clumsy, boxy, and foul mouthed androids had been deployed to begin the long cleanup process. 

Although the reporter/politician phase was a generally unpleasant and grating experience for Ratchet, he’d rather pander to and jerk off fifteen hundred of those slime-ball politicians to get even the slimmest chance of avoiding the next phase altogether. 

The talk show phase.

Clank had always told him it would help build public relations and Ratchet would always  resist the urge to drag his claws up and down his eyelids until he could only see red. Clank had told him people always wanted to hear what he had to say, especially following such a spectacle of an event as his most recent adventure. Ratchet always wanted to argue that he had more than enough ‘public relations’ to make even the most popular of the popular cream their pants in envy. He instead always chose to bite his tongue, begrudgingly asking his friend when and where.

Clank had chortled in response, Ratchet felt a thick pool of dread spread throughout his stomach.

Ratchet always hated just how bright the lights were on these stages, these blinding suns had always somehow been perfectly positioned to where the main focus point of the beams were directly attacking his corneas. The tight black button up Clank had wrestled him into made things worse, not only were these lights so bright they were also so hot . Ratchet could feel the fur stuck beneath this cursed shirt burning away in a great ball of fire. His leg bounced restlessly against the leather of the loveseat, making a soft paf paf paf paf with each fall of the appendage. 

A thin sheen of sweat had formed across his face under the fur, fuck it was hot. 

A startlingly loud wave of laughter had snapped him back to focus, leg halting its repeated bounces with a start. Clank was killing it, buttering up the host and playing the audience perfectly, hitting every unspoken mark and keeping the conversation fresh and engaging. Frequently bringing the audience into the picture and laughing in that goofy chortle of his to every joke directed towards him. 

Ratchet settled deeper into his chair, thanking whatever higher power residing above or below that Clank had been blessed with such perfect people pleasing skills. A knot had formed so thickly in Ratchet’s throat that he genuinely thought he might choke and die on the spot if he had been tasked with responding to a question. 

“So, tell me—HEHA!—tell me-tell me Ratchet, y’know we’re dying to know what’s next for you. So, just what comes next now?” Gimmy Gordon’s nasally voice rang out, cleaving Ratchet out of his musings violently. 

Ratchet’s eyes widened, ears falling flat against his head as claws dogged into the soft leather of his chair. “W-wha?” He squeaked out, unfocused eyes trying desperately to clear up the image of Timmy’s short green face. 

Another harsh bark of laughter ripped its way through Timmy’s throat, yellowish-green eyelids closed so tightly deep lines had formed across his forehead as his nose scrunched up to what seemed like an impossible degree. He leaned back far in his chair, squeaking loudly as his body shook back and forth from his rocking. He clapped a few times as more painful sounding laughs wheezed out from his lungs. The audience joined in his seemingly uncontrollable fit of laughter, cheering and whistling and clapping as the host struggled to regain his composure. 

An uncertain grin slowly spread across Ratchet’s face, eyes slowly scanning his surroundings as he let out a weak chuckle. Coughing into his hand, he sat up a bit more and crossed one leg over the other, resting an arm over the back of his chair as the other smoothed his ears back. Itching idly at the base of his neck, Ratchet chewed the inside of his cheek while he waited for the host to get himself back under control. 

“HEHAHEAHE!”

Ratchet sucked on his lip. 

“HEHEHA—Ok! Ok ok— okay. Whew! Ratchet, ladies and gentlemen!” Timmy bellowed, stretching an arm out towards him presenting him like some sort of grand trophy. The audience’s cheers increased tenfold.

Ratchet sat there, he gave a small wave, utterly confused.

“Great stuff, great stuff really…yea. But come on! Wuh-what’s next for Ratchet? Gotta have something to tell us, right?” Timmy finally stuttered out, heaving great breaths in and out, short green face tinged red. Swinging wildly towards the audience once more, riling them up even further. Ratchet blinked, muscles near the corner of his mouth twitching as he considered his answer. 

God, he did not want to do this. 

He did not want to talk about himself, no. He did not want to even think about himself. He did not even want to think about himself not thinking about himself. There was no part of him that wanted any insignificant morsel of his brain to be burdened with the task of acknowledging himself in any way, shape, or form. 

Talking about himself lead to thinking about himself, thinking about himself lead to thinking about back then, thinking about back then lead to thinking about him , thinking about him lead to thinking about that goddamned dimension where his people had supposedly fucked off—

The sea of eyes lasered in on him, all unblinking, all so eager to witness what it was the great Ratchet had to say. The tip of his red tongue peaked from beneath his lips, wetting them gently as he softly cleared his throat. He opened his mouth slightly, straining against his vocal cords with all his might in a desperate effort to produce any sort of sound other than a strangled mess. 

Calm it, he scolded himself, you’re getting so worked up over nothing. Just don’t think about it, blot it out, get it out of your head already. It’s just a normal question. 

Ratchet sat forward, clearing his throat painfully once more. Mouth opening and closing, no sound coming from him. 

The silence in the studio was deafening. 

His head hurt.

His head throbbed.

These lights were too bright, these people were too loud, this host was too loud, this air conditioning unit was too loud, the ships outside were too loud, the band was too loud, the tapping of Timmy’s pen against his desk was too loud, the blood rushing through his ears was too loud, the heart beat hammering in his chest was too loud, the images in his brain were too loud, his voice was too loud, it was all—

“Well uh…” Ratchet started, forcing a sorry huff of a laugh out. “To be honest with you, got all sorts of—” 

“O-oh man! Wow! That is–that is just FANTASTIC! Clank! Why don’t you–”

God, this host was too fucking loud. 

Hours later, Ratchet stood in his kitchen. Top three buttons of his stiff shirt undone, arms crossed, head tilted upwards, eyes gazing at seemingly nothing in particular along the ceiling. His tail swished back and forth lazily behind him, softly dragging across the chilly tiled floors of the kitchen. A delicate sting tickled its way up along the length of his spine, the sensitive end of his tail twitching slightly at the cold. 

The sharp sound of a series of quick and perfectly calculated cuts disturbed the overall quietness of the kitchen. A stinging sound which would normally make Ratchet’s overly sensitive ears cringe, yet it was oddly soothing. The timing between each interval of cuts was exact, four seconds would pass and six quick cuts would be made. Another four seconds would pass and another six quick cuts would be made. Ratchet felt his eyes droop, his mind quiet for once. 

Ratchet ran a tongue over his canines, “Guess this really is our ‘ big break,’ ” he had said, fingers curling in quotations, “huh, buddy?” 

He slid his eyes over to said buddy, the image of him standing atop a stool so rigidly straight only to just barely see over the counter made him want to chuckle. He did actually allow a chuckle to escape him after taking in Clank’s appearance; a little black apron combined such an over the top precision like focus towards the small hill of vegetables laid out evenly on his cutting board.

“Indeed,” Clank replied, a little distracted. “Would appear as if I finally have more than enough time to perfect this new recipe I acquired some time ago,” he chortled, practically radiating happiness as his hands got back to work chopping up more vegetables. Curiosity piqued, Ratchet leaned forwards a bit, peeking over Clank’s shoulder with a tiny smile. His smile widened, biting down on his lip to stifle the surprised guffaw that nearly barked out of his throat. 

Radishes. Clank had been cutting nothing but radishes for the past twenty-five minutes. 

“You,” Ratchet laughed, stepping forward and flicking the small red orb sitting atop Clank’s head,  “are out of your tiny little metal mind if you think I’m eating anything with radishes in it.” 

Clank batted his hand away with a glare, pinching the orb with a thumb and forefinger to stop it jostling atop his chrome dome. “I assure you I am operating at one-hundred percent peak efficiency, Ratchet. Not only does this soup contain all the required nutrition someone of your build requires, it also—” 

“It also has radishes. Which is an instant, and very hard, no.” 

“While I lack the necessary tools to properly digest radishes or get any real nutritional value from them, research suggest that they are—” 

“The worst vegetable ever created. I know, I was head researcher on that whole case study.” 

Clank slowly squinted his eyes at Ratchet. “Interrupt me one more time,” he warned. 

Ratchet tilted his head down at Clank, pursing his lips slightly. Clank narrowed his eyes further, tiny green slits staring hard at Ratchet. Ratchet stared back.

“...or what?” Ratchet snickered, flicking Clank’s antenna once more.

“I am still in possession of a knife, by the way.” 

The third month of this break had rolled around. Ratchet found it increasingly difficult to continue avoiding the elephant in the room. 

Staring at his reflection through a broken mirror could only hold his attention for so many hours, his hands twitched with the familiar need to fiddle with something—anything to keep his mind busy. 

He later found himself hunched over his workbench, an dismembered blaster laid out before him. The weapon had suddenly stopped firing completely, trigger pulls resulted in nothing more than a harsh click and the sounds of whirring machinery within the barrel. The strong scent of charred durasteel was stuck in his nose, a problem with the blaster's automatic cooling system. An easy fix, most amateurs could get the weapon back to perfect condition in as little as thirty minutes. 

Ratchet had been at the repair for the past four hours. 

He sat there, motionless, staring vacantly down at the little fried red wire between his fingertips. His other hand held an old soldering iron, its surface enveloped in dents and dimples and an assortment of blemishes, all signs of a trusty tool who’d lived a long and busy life. It was a gift, one of his first birthday presents received during his childhood, about six or seven when the tool fell into his possession. 

A gloved thumb idly flicked the device on and off, the electrical buzzing of the instrument piercing through the dead silence of the garage. The nitrile material of the gloves stuck uncomfortably to the fur lying beneath, the already stuffy temperature of the garage was seemingly increased tenfold with each passing minute spent wearing them. 

Ratchet twisted the wire back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Eyes running up and down the length of it, not really seeing nor paying any real attention to the image being shown to him but just using it as something to give his eyes to do. A vain attempt in distracting himself from the maelstrom of thoughts brewing in the recesses of his mind, fighting closer and closer to the focal point of his consciousness by the second. 

His neck was sore, his back even more so. His ass ached, prickling needles ran up and down his legs from the lack of movement, his arms felt heavy, his fingers taught and sweaty. His eyes wanted to look to the door facing his far right, each brief glance toward it was promptly shut down and ignored. 

No, he will not open it. No, he will not open it. No, he will not open it. No, he wi—

He wanted to tell himself to stop thinking that, to shut the hell up and somehow silence that mantra repeatedly screaming itself at him. As much as he wished to tell himself to silence the thought, he wanted just as much for him to completely ignore it and blot it out from reaching his consciousness. No part of him desired to entertain the thought whilst every part of him wanted to kill it. 

Another part of him laughed hysterically, holding its sides as it rolled back and forth on the floor. The part laughed and laughed, pointing mockingly at Ratchet with a skinny finger as more guffaws fired from its wide mouth. Entertain it or not, Ratchet had already acknowledged this thought’s existence before even reaching a conclusion. The thought had already wormed its way into his consciousness, it had already made itself known to him and now no matter what decision he made it would still sit there, rotting away in the corners of his mind until it drew hi—

Ratchet’s jaw hardened, eye twitching as he shot a hole into the third part’s face, taking great joy in the way it's crumpled flesh smoldered from the blast.  He took a breath, resuming the debate within him which he wasn’t paying any attention to at all whatsoever. 

If he entertained it, he would have to acknowledge it, if he had to acknowledge it he had to think about it, if he had to think about it he would have to reach a decision, if he had to reach a decision he had to think about hi—

If he killed it, he would have to acknowledge it, if he had to acknowledge it he had to think about it, if he had to think about it he would have to reach a decision, if he had to reach a decision he had to think about hi—

A fist slammed itself down into the aluminum of the table. He raised it, hovering for a moment before crashing it back down. He raised it once more, tightening his fist and shot it down even harder. He grit his teeth, veins in his neck stressing as his fist pummeled into the table. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat, a vicious sense of satisfaction and fury flowing through him at the sound of every KLUNK! against the table. 

A warm, fatherly laugh. 

KLUNK!

A strong, towering physique. 

KLUNK!

A flash of tired yet welcoming, yellow eyes.

KLUNK!

A flash of white and red.

KLUNK!

Those eyes brimming with anger.

KLUNK!

Desperate gasps for air, blood pool—

KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK!

Ratchet heaved, savage breaths wheezing in and out of his tightly clenched teeth. A chorus manned by thousands of screeching voices bellowing one name over and over and over:

Aliste—

KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK!

KLUNK!

Silence. 

Short wheezing breaths flew from Ratchet as he stumbled over, leaning hard against the table, head hung low as he put a hand to the back of his head. Fingers digging into the fur with a shaking, tightly formed fist. He curled the fist tighter, twisting the strands of fur caught in his grasp and tearing a few pieces out. 

He groaned, coughing coarsely and grimacing at the thick flehm coating his table as he did. He took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before letting it out in a slow, shaky exhale. Body deflating as he did, resting his hot forehead against the cool metal of the table’s surface. 

“Ok,” he whispered. He wet his lips, smiling tightly before wetting them again. “Ok,” he repeated. He rapped his knuckles against the table twice, taking a quick breath before wrenching himself upwards. Leaning against his fist still firmly planted into the table for a brief moment before pulling it back. 

He looked down at it, rotating it this way and that, checking for any damage. He hoped it wasn’t as bad as it hurt. He poked at his throbbing knuckles, wincing slightly. He huffed out a breath, shaking his head a little. “Nothing a little ice won’t fix,” he muttered. 

He glanced down towards the dent in the table, sucking on his cheek as he took in the sheer size of the cavity. He cradled his throbbing fist closer to his chest, healthy hand coming up to rub absentmindedly over the bruising knuckles. He huffed, shaking his head as he traced the rim of the dent with two fingers. “Could just…buffer that…buff that out later,” he muttered, “sure I got something round here for that.” 

He didn’t give a shit about the dent. 

He closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head. “You’re ok,” he whispered, “you’re ok man. Just a little bug in your head, that’s all. Just a little bug. Killed plenty of bugs before.” 

He sat slowly eased himself back onto his bench, back resting against the table’s edge as he leaned forward on his knees wearily. His head hung low between his legs, hands rubbing up and down the length of his forehead and the base of his long ears. 

“You’re ok,” he repeated. “Just a little bug. Been a long week, that’s all.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, nodding slightly.

Three months. Three whole months had passed and nothing . Not a single major threat had reared its ugly head, not a single villain had made their grand appearance, not a single cult had risen up, not a single violent rebellion had exploded into action, nothing. 

Absolutely nothing has happened these last few months except for peace . 

He’s tried looking for trouble, done everything in his power to somehow run across someone or something in need of being blown up. Despite his best efforts, everything came up dry. Has the entire city of Metropolis, by some horrible miracle, become absolutely crime free? Has the entire planet itself turned into some Utopia? 

He had spent days, literal days sitting by his phone. Picking it up and slamming it down every other minute when he found no new calls for help. He had spent hours listening intently to each and every radio frequency available, finding nothing but every host talking about just how good things had been. He even widened his search to the entire Solana Galaxy itself and somehow, to Ratchet’s complete and utter bewilderment, there was still nothing to be found. 

He should be happy! He should be overjoyed! He should be ecstatic! Finally, finally there was peace! Finally his years of hard work had paid off! Finally he could rest his head easy at night knowing there was nobody out there being viciously torn apart!

But it didn’t! Not one bit!

He wanted things to go back to the way it had been before. He wanted the fight back. He wanted the blood back. He wanted the explosions back. He wanted the broken bones, the shattered teeth, the scattered brain matter, the scorch marks, the twisted metal, the clashing fists, the meaty stomps—he wanted it all. He needed it all. 

He needed the distraction back. Please, he needed the distraction back.

Was it selfish? Yes. Was it cruel of him? Yes. Would people think he was a psycho if he had told them so? Yes. Was he fucked up? Yes, absolutely, but he’d be even more fucked up without the fucked up shit happening every single day. There just wasn’t a place in existence anymore for this Lombax if things weren’t being blown to smithereens.

 Before he had loved the breaks, loved the downtime between fights, loved the feeling of settling down into his warm bed, loved the way he and Clank would just sit together in silence after a mission well done, loved the peaceful morning after a fight—he loved it all. Hell, he preferred the peaceful downtime over the dramatic fights seven times out of ten. 

Sure, peacetime had bored him in the past, take the adrenaline away from an adrenaline junkie like him and it’s a quick way to knock the wind outta his sails. But it had never sent him into this state of panic before.

Before, a quiet moment alone had never filled him with so much dread as it did now. Before, lying down at night had never instilled such fear within him. Before, tinkering silently with whatever tool at hand had never made him shake so hard. 

Before him, he was normal. 

He couldn’t blink without seeing his face, he couldn’t sit still without hearing his voice, he couldn’t sleep without hearing his laugh, he couldn’t just think without some part of him forcing its way into his mind. 

Ratchet wanted to hate him, wanted to cast him from his mind completely. Ratchet wanted to scorch every inch of his brain until no small part of him remained. Ratchet wanted to purge him from existence. Ratchet wanted to blot every memory of him out with a big black marker. Ratchet wanted to hate him. 

He also wanted to feel his warmth once more. He wanted to listen to him talk for hours and hours about the most mundane of things. He wanted to laugh himself silly at his dry humor. He wanted to make him laugh in return. He wanted to make him proud. He wanted to walk alongside him once more.

Ratchet hated him. He loathed him. He resented him. He disgusted him. He cursed him. He shunned him. He loved him. He cherished him. He adored him. He respected him. He missed him. He scorned him. He despised him. He disregarded him. He ignored him. He admired him. He honored him. He prized him. 

He missed him. 

He hated him. 

He wanted him out. 

He wanted him out . 

He wanted him to get the fuck out of his head.

He hated this, detested it, despised it, desperately wanted to do anything in his power to avoid feeling it entirely. It all made his skin crawl. He itched, he was so itchy. He scratched and scratched and clawed and tore away, blistering and bleeding and splitting his skin as his claws raked through his fur. He hated this feeling.

It was a constant nagging sensation. It tap-danced away inside his skull, stomping his brain to mush. Grey matter and splintered fragments of his skull leaked from his nose, his eyes, his ears. The nagging feeling still danced away, slipping and sliding across the mushy paste now rotting in his skull. The feeling stomped, it danced, it hooted and hollered, and it stamp stamp stamped away at his head. 

His eyes blurred, his ears rang, his lungs heaved, his hands shook, his legs locked, his eyes squeezed shut. Clamping his hands to the sides of his head, he squeezed them together, mushing his face in a desperate attempt to rid himself of this horrible pounding in his head.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Here he was, the great savior of the multiverse, the one who had saved the entire dimension and all of the infinite others from complete eradication. A hero for god’s sake, an unstoppable force of nature who has stared down countless eldritch abominations throughout his lifetime. Someone to rally behind, someone to be inspired by, someone to hold the line against immeasurable odds, someone who was strong . 

That very same hero, that very same unstoppable force of nature, now sitting here like some weak minded fool, sniveling and wheezing to himself like some pissbaby coward. That same hero who had tanked devastating blow after devastating blow now desperately clawing at his head in some vain attempt to rid himself of some meager headache. 

This wasn’t him—this wasn’t Ratchet , this was some poor random fool who wanted to play hero. 

It really was pathetic. Downright shameful. 

It made him sick.  

Ratchet rocked back and forth, ducking even lower between his legs. His hands dug into the nest of fur atop his head, pulling and twisting at the strands in desperation. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his throat tight, his breathing labored. Sweat coated his body. His legs bounced, rapidly shifting up and down and up and down and up and down squeaking against the bench. 

He rocked faster, choking on sobs as he pleaded for his mind to be good to him. He wanted to go back. Send him back a few years, just please send him back to a time where he could distract himself. He’d give anything, he’d do anything, just please send him back. 

Hell he’d even take a few months if years were asking for too much, just anytime that was far far away from right now. Send him back to Nefarious, send him back to that horrible Emperor Nefarious, send him back to a near multiversal collapse, send him back to that thrilling adventure, send him back to that wonderful distraction, send him back to R—

“Ratchet?” Called a worried voice. 

He froze. 

Frigid beads of sweat seared their way down his scorching face. His heartbeat boomed like great vicious drums of war in his ears, head pounding in tune with the heavy rhythm banging out from deep within his skull. It felt as if the air had been sucked right out from him, chest falling still as the clump in his throat grew exponentially. 

He cleared his throat, a garbled excuse of a sentence tumbled out from him. Coughing harshly into his hand, he tried once more. A strangled noise once more erupted from his raw esophagus. He sniffed harshly, rubbing his hands down his face as he took a steadying breath. 

 “...yuh…” He coughed once more, “Y-yeah! Er–what’s up?” He shouted out, turning his head towards the far locked door of his garage. 

A few seconds of silence ticked by. A part of him believed that he had simply imagined the voice during his fit. 

“Are you alright?” The voice, now realized as Clank’s, called out once more. 

Ratchet ducked his head, shame and embarrassment flooding his system. Of course Clank heard his tantrum, how could he not? Wasn’t exactly a shining example of subtlety with him nearly puking his guts out over some damned memory. 

“Yeah I’m–I’m good, buddy,” Ratchet said, “just got lost in thought for a second there.” 

Ratchet could hear Clank’s mouth open slightly, clacking shut in what seemed like hesitance. “Anything I should concern myself with?” He asked through the door. 

Ratchet licked his lips, “Nah man, it’s–it’s nothing really.” Ratchet chuckled, waving his hand casually in a performance he wasn’t sure was for. He scuffed his boot into the ground, itching at the skin beneath his nose. “Everything is a-okay.”

A few more seconds of silence passed between them.

 “...Are you sure?” Clank called once more, “Not wanting to pry but it sounded like—”

“I promise you,” Ratchet butted in, “it's nothing. Really. I’m ok.” His eyes burned, bottom lip starting to wobble once more. 

Ratchet would never be able to repay his gratitude to whoever was concerned that the heavy door of his garage stood between him and Clank. 

“Alright,” Clank finally mumbled, no part of him sounding satisfied with Ratchet’s answer. “I’m going to be gone for a while, I have some matters to attend to…” Ratchet heard the shuttering of his eyelids. “...Are you going to be alright?” 

Ratchet nodded his head, eyes glued to the floor. His hands whiteknuckled against the bench, shaking slightly. 

“Ratc—”

“Yeah! Sorry yea—yeah,” Ratchet’s mouth hung open slightly, “I’ll be ok. Call if you need anything man.” 

“Of course, you know where to call if needed.” 

Ratchet said nothing. He stared at the door, mouth set in a firm line. He heard the whisper of a sigh come from the door, the little footfalls, the faint jingling of keys, and a door further away opening and closing shut. 

Ratchet deflated like a balloon, crumpling down into himself and leaning back on the bench. His back rested against the cold metal of the table, a small shiver ran up his spine at the contact. His head tilted back, letting gravity suspend his neck in a position that was in no way comfortable.

He stared hard at the impossibly bright light above him. Squinting slightly as he felt more and more of his corneas go up in flames. Closed his eyes, waiting a few seconds before opening them again, glaring hard at the light. His eyes burned up, he closed them, he opened them, his eyes burned up, he closed them, he opened them, his eyes burned up, he closed them, he opened them, his eyes burned up. 

His head still pounded, his hands still shook, his breathing was still ragged, but he was…alright; alright as he could be considering everything. His eyes felt charred yet the feeling was not unwelcome. It was something different, something opposite from what he was feeling before. Something he could use to distract himself with. 

If it meant permanent damage to his eye sockets to get rid of that feeling from before, so be it. He could always invest in an Optometrist. 

So he sat there, opening and closing his eyes. Some time had passed, the specifics unknown to him—could have been seconds, minutes, or hours even. He didn’t know nor did he really care. He closed his eyes again, leaving them shut. His head craned back further, the tips of his long ears licking the surface of the table behind him. 

Bzzt!  

His eyelids twitched, eyebrows drawing closer together in confusion. He raised his ears as much as he could, straining the muscles in their attempt to locate this new sound. Nothing was heard besides the gentle transfer of air in and out of his nose. His ears relaxed. 

Bzzt! 

His eyes opened with a glare. Wincing at the bright light above him, he wiggled his way back upright, arms flailing out as he did. Ratchet’s elbows settled onto his knees, still sore hand coming up to itch at his raw nose. He squinted at the ground, ignoring the small droplets of water scattered around his booted feet. ‘ Phone,’ his mind whispered. 

He blinked, sitting upwards with a start. His mouth hung open slightly in thought. His breathing, although still ragged, slowly evened out. He sniffed, grimacing at the wetness of his nose before snorting again. He dragged a hand across his nose, grimacing further at the snot now coating his glove. 

His hands plopped into his lap, his mouth still hung open. 

Phone.

He blinked. 

“Phone,” he muttered, “p-phone…that was—my phone. My phone!”

His head snapped to attention.

He slapped his hands against his thighs, feeling up and down his legs in search of the device. He twisted around, mouth settled into a tight line with eyes wide as dinner plates. His eyes roamed the desk, swinging his legs around the bench clumsily he wildly rummaged around the metal surface. 

He flung scrap aside, looked under tools, shuffled blueprints around, tore open wires, rummaged through drawers, coming up dry. “Come on I know it’s here somewhere,” Ratchet muttered through his teeth. He frantically dug around more, eyes straining and scanning every nook and cranny hoping to catch a glimpse of it. 

He swore under his breath, slapping his hands against the metal upon not finding it among the clutter of the desk. His head snapped forward, blinking a few times before he pursed his lips. He whipped his head towards the right, eyes locking on to a teeny little handmade table sitting besides the storage door.

There, sitting right on the edge of the table, was Ratchet’s phone. 

“Ah ha!” He hollered, a wide grin splitting his face in two. 

He dove from the bench, getting his foot caught on the edge before crashing down, loudly and painfully, in a pile of twisted limbs. He scrambled back to his feet, knocking a bucket clean across the room and spilling even more tools along his clumsy stumble to the table. He crashed into the table, scrambling up on wobbly legs and slapped a hand over his phone. 

He held the device triumphantly over his head, grinning like mad. “Yes!” Ratchet whisper-shouted to himself. 

It had been ages since he last received anything from his phone. The thing had been so dry as of late he genuinely believed he must have accidentally turned off the notifications somehow. He checked and checked and checked the device’s settings countless times every single day. Each check constantly reminding him that no, the notifications were not turned off, you just weren’t needed. 

Finally, finally his phone was giving him something to work with. Maybe it was a new mission? Maybe it was a distress call from a faraway galaxy? Maybe a new tyrant had risen from the shadows and was holding all of existence hostage? Maybe Nefarious launched a surprise air raid on the city’s congress building? Maybe someone just needed someone dead? 

Ratchet’s mind ran wild with the possibilities, each one making him more and more excited than the last. His tail swished happily behind him, he bit down on his lip in an attempt to keep a giddy giggle from bubbling out his throat. 

He held the phone close between his gloved hands, thumb shaking from nerves. It missed the power button multiple times, he growled slightly and pressed it firmly against the button. The screen came to life, the sheer intensity of the light blinding him for a moment. When he came to, he shook his head and practically shoved his face into the device’s display. 

His excitement plummeted. 

His face fell, his tail froze, his eyes widened, his grip slacked, his breath stilled, and his stomach exploded in a dizzying mixture of sensations: Dread, shock, alarm, confusion, and a hint of fear. 

Despite the overwhelming amount of horror mixed in his stomach, slight tendrils of something warm slowly wiggled their way through the edges of his system. Just before his eyes, laid two messages— messages , not alerts or warnings. 

-uyo

-yo****

His eyes slowly peeled themselves away from the messages, settling onto the name displayed near the top of his screen. 

[Rivet]

He blinked, straightening out and leaning against the wall. A thumb pressed down against the screen, idly tapping at the chat bar. He bit at his lip, thumb shifting to drag the display down slightly. His eyes caught a glimpse of the last message shared between them, another message from Rivet.

- of course talk to u later man 

A little emoji of a Reaper giving a toothy smile and a thumbs up sat at the end of her message. He remembered how borderline obsessed she was with using those, going so far as to communicate using nothing more than emojis for an entire day once. 

He smiled slightly at the memory, a ghost of a laugh blew from his lips. He scrolled up a few more inches, smile growing wider and wider by the smallest of margins at each message he read. He stopped once he reached the beginning of the conversation of that day, eyes focusing on the date sitting on the middle of the screen. 

-07/26/5368-

A pit began to form in his stomach. His thumb traveled to the top of his screen, swiping down quickly, reaching a new menu. He read today’s date, the pit in his stomach grew.

- 09/18/5368 -

He frowned. Swiping away the menu and staring down at their old conversation. 

That couldn’t have been right, surely there must have been a mistake. His thumb dashed to refresh the conversation, heart sinking further when the date remained unchanged. He shut the phone off, clicking it back to life and waiting the few seconds required for it to reboot.  The date remained unchanged. 

His frown deepened. 

It really had been that long. 

Just about two entire months had slogged by and neither of the two had shared a single word. Not even a small hello, or how are you doing, or what’s up, or see anything funny on TV—nothing. Absolute radio silence from what Ratchet remembered to be one of the chattiest people he’d ever encountered. The two could be watching paint dry on the side of a cruiser and she’d somehow find a way to transform this mundane act into the most exciting extravaganza ever witnessed. 

She was an absolute riot, the type of person you could always count on to brighten any room they’d step in tenfold. No matter how pessimistic things got during their adventure, she always managed to find some way to drag morale out of the mud and breathe a new whiff of life into it. Pit her up against the most vile, grotesquely amped up, mega-behemoth of an adversary and she’d meet it head on with a laugh. It was one of her many attributes of which he admired. 

Clank had called her their own personal ray of sunshine, Ratchet would be a damned dirty liar if he didn’t agree. 

Ratchet’s eyes drifted through their last conversation again. Paying real attention to the words shared this time—words shared on both sides. His chest felt dull as he read through it. A part of him wanted to smile once more at Rivet’s antics and kind words, the majority of him was numbed by his complete lack of any real response to her. 

Rivet was animated, excitedly retelling the events of her busy day and all the little amusing intricacies which went into each little task, trying her absolute heart out to construct a healthy and steady flow of conversation between the two. Whereas Ratchet was…barely present. Rivet’s attempts at forming conversation would have been more successful with a piece of plywood. 

Her paragraphs were answered with one or two words, her jokes were answered with a stale haha, her detailed explanations of her duties were answered with a dusty ‘oh wow,’ her worried questions regarding his wellbeing were answered with a flat ‘I’m fine,’ her gentle prodding to get him to respond to just about anything she said were answered with a ‘sorry I was busy.’ 

Ratchet only answered her, he realized. He gave no responses, nothing for her to bounce off of and really engage with him. It left a sour taste in his mouth. 

Ratchet stared down at his phone, sharp canines digging into his lip. He had never considered himself to be the greatest texter around but even he knew that this was a whole new level of dry. The pit which had formed in his stomach spread, spidering it’s way up his abdomen and weeding it’s way through his chest. He felt tight, like a fist had closed its way around his heart. 

‘She didn’t deserve that ,’ his mind echoed, ‘ doesn’t deserve any of that.’  

Throughout his entire time of knowing her, she had been nothing but kind to him. She had proven herself time and time again that she was a trusted confidant, someone his soul knew would have his back even if his brain fought against it. She didn’t deserve to be completely disregarded like that, nor did she deserve to be practically ghosted for nearly two whole months. 

Memories of just how…nice it was to have someone like Rivet around floated through his mind. Conversation was never rare between the two before, even during their busiest days doing whatever random crap needed to be completed they still found more than enough time for each other. 

A fact which made Ratchet feel…odd. Not necessarily in a bad way, but not necessarily in a good way either. It was a strange sensation of something just barely warm enough to be considered pleasant mixed with a whirlwind of dread. It was unpleasantly pleasant…pleasantly unpleasant? It was odd. 

Odd that for the first time in a long while, Ratchet had found himself actively and willingly setting aside time for another person. He was taking chunks out of his days and dedicating it entirely to talking and spending time with another person. A person who made his face sore from just how much they made him grin throughout their talks.

The last time he had done something like that was with Talywn, a fact which he shot down and incinerated immediately, chalking it up to mere coincidence. Rivet was a friend, friends set time apart for each other all the time, this was nothing new. 

Friends also build first-of-their-kind interdimensional messaging gateways for each other and each other only…who doesn’t? 

He remembered the day clearly. It had been a day or two after the defeat of the Nefariouses. The city was still mostly ruined, buildings were ravaged, streets were demolished, key infrastructure was on its last legs—the city, hell even the whole planet itself, was a solid gust of wind away from total collapse. 

Despite the calamity, the two Lombaxes sat side by side, about a foot’s worth of space separating the two. They were perched atop an overturned column belonging to a nearby bank, its marble surface cracked and dirtied by soot. The sounds of powertools, indistinct shouting, and the hurried footfalls of Constructo-bots resonated from all around the two. Rivet and Ratchet were in their own little bubble, right smack dab in the middle of it all.

No words were shared between the two, only sound flitting between them were the soft smacks of their mouths as they munched away on sandwiches Clank had prepared earlier with the assistance of Kit. Their eyes were bloodshot, their fur was matted and sticky, their muscles ached, their bones creaked, and the various bandages wrapped around their battered bodies itched painfully. 

The two had spent the entirety of the day prior being hauled off in an emergency caravan and tossed into a hospital for treatment. Ratchet had whined and moaned that he was ok, that all he needed was just a little Aspirin and a pack of ice. Multiple CT scans showing concussions and even more scans showing a multitude of fractured bones finally shut him up. 

The doctors recommended a full day and night of bedrest, Ratched had whined and moaned again. Clank, with the hesitant help of Kit, had stood vigilantly in front of their hospital room, ensuring that neither Ratchet nor Rivet would sneak away from their rehabilitation. Ratchet pouted, Rivet called it a sleepover.

In the end, the two had gotten the worst sleep of their lives. 

Ratchet leaned heavily into his knee, one arm barely supporting his weight while the other shoveled slow bites of sandwich into his maw. The air was warm, the sandwich was warm, the column his butt was planted on was warm, and the body sitting mere inches away from him was impossibly warm. All the perfect conditions for a nap. 

Ratchet peered over towards Rivet, just barely holding back a snicker at just how exhausted she looked. Her ears hung low, her fur was a dull grey opposed to her usual pristine white, her eyes were flat, her lips were set in a scowl, her clothes were filthy, and she stank.

‘A beauty,’ his mind had said. He didn’t have the energy to kill the thought just yet. 

Rivet blinked slowly before sliding her impossibly blue eyes over towards him, catching his gaze. She raised a lazy eyebrow, tilting her head back slightly. A smirk found its way onto Ratchet’s face, his eyes raked up and down her form before meeting her gaze again. He raised his eyebrows, tilting his head towards her. 

‘Gross,’ he mouthed.

She rolled her eyes before parroting his same actions right back at him, making a big song and dance out of the way her eyes roamed around him. Her eyes snapped back to his, she tilted her head towards him while squinting.

‘Disgusting,’ she mouthed. 

A laugh barked from Ratchet, surprising him and catapulting a few pieces of half chewed sandwich onto the floor. Rivet’s nose crinkled at the sight, a metal fist came down to clock him on the shoulder. Ratchet chuckled some more, burying the grossest pieces of chewed food in dirt using the toe of his boot. Rivet shook her head at him, a small huff of a laugh blew from her nostrils. 

Ratchet felt the tip of Rivet’s tail flick over his own, engulfing the tails end with her warmth. His mouth dried considerably at the contact, he coughed softly into his elbow. It suddenly felt thirteen times hotter than it had previously.

“So…” Rivet suddenly drawled, startling Ratchet out of his thoughts with jump. “Looks like you got your work cut out for you over here,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the destruction surrounding them. 

Ratchet blinked, glancing around as if just now taking in the extent of the damage around him. “Wha–oh. Yea, gonna keep us busy over here for sure,” Ratchet chuckled. “Lots of work…lots…” he mumbled, coughing once more into his elbow. 

Her tail was still sitting on the tip of his. 

“Don’t even wanna think about the mess waiting for me back home,” she groaned, head flopping back dramatically. “I mean if those two gear-heads could completely wreck this much just from being here for like what,” she counted off her metal hand, “like—three, four hours? Imagine the hell-pile of garbage I have waiting to sweep up from a thirty-something year long rule.” 

“Ugh I know! Chores! Cleaning! How will you ever make it through this one?” Ratchet moaned, leaning dramatically into her personal space. 

Rivet sneered down at his mocking grin, elbowing him in the stomach. “Y’know damn well what I mean you dolt,” she grunted, “It’s a lot more than just cleaning.” 

Ratchet curled an eyebrow, idly rubbing at his sore stomach. “Not sure I follow…” 

Rivet sighed, a hand pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ok, look. You’re used to this, not your first rodeo by a longshot. Everyone’s gonna be looking for someone to look towards to help fix everything—and seeing that this responsibility usually falls into your lap…” she trailed off, fingers tapping idly against her crossed arms.

“Probably gonna fall into mine back home...y’know, seeing as you’re my dimensional counterpart or whatever the hell,” she muttered, scuffing her boot into the dirt, clearly upset. 

Ratchet chewed on his lip in thought. She wasn’t…wrong. Chances are what usually is his responsibility of damage control, leadership, and overall reassurance that everything was going to be ok would be Rivet’s own responsibilities back home. If everything else about his life was seemingly mirrored in hers, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to believe her post-hero-work duties would align with his. 

Ratchet frowned.

“Awh…hey I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to poke fun,” Ratchet apologized. 

Rivet glanced at him, lips falling into a flat line. “N-no it’s ok—don’t apologize. No need for me to get so butthurt about this after everything we’ve already dealt with.” 

“I mean, I’m still gonna apologize if I upset you,” Ratchet chuckled.

“And I’m here to tell you that there’s no need. So don’t,” Rivet snickered.

“I still will,” he cleared his throat, “I’m sorry.” 

“Well now I’ll look like a dick if I don’t accept it,” Rivet laughed. 

“Wha–but I’m the dick here. I’m the one who upset you,” Ratchet said, waving his sandwich around. 

“Dude,” Rivet groaned, “are you always this difficult?” 

“Apologizing is not ‘being difficult.’” 

Rivet leveled him with a flat look. “I’m gonna put dirt in your sandwich.”

Ratchet squinted at her. “You wouldn’t.”

She met his gaze, a smile slowly inched across her face despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. She leaned down ever so slightly, leaning inch by inch until the tips of her fingers made contact with the red dirt beneath them. Ratchet’s eyes flicked down to her fingers before snapping back to her gaze.

The corners of his mouth twitched, several small breaths and chuckles bubbled from him. Every attempt to speak was thwarted as an army of tiny chuckles continuously barreled out of him, his smile spread wider and wider all the while. 

“Yo—you w-wouldn’t,” he squeezed out between his breathy chuckles. He turned his body from her, shielding his sandwich. 

Her tongue darted out to wet at her lips, her sharp canines found purchase in them after. Her smile narrowed as did her eyes, looking like some feral feline getting ready to pounce. Which in hindsight he should have seen coming, especially after making that simile in his head, but she still managed to catch him off guard with her sudden lunge towards his person, metal fist caked full of dirt. 

He screamed, flailing backwards and bringing his knees up to block her lunge. She redirected quickly, brushing her tight abdomen against his knees for a brief moment before stamping her feet down, sending a red plume of dirt out around her and towering over him. He rocked this way and that, trying desperately to dodge her dirt filled fist and protect his delicious lunch. She laughed hysterically all the while, trying to hold onto her own sandwich as she tried desperately to slip past his defenses. Ratchet’s panicked screams gained more than a few odd looks from the surrounding bots.

Ratchet lunged forward with a laugh, crashing into her and quickly wrapping an arm around Rivet’s waist. He felt her stiffen slightly before he hoisted her in the air with a grunt. He just barely got her lifted up over his shoulder when he felt his knees buckle, his back strained to carry her weight. Good gods above she was nothing but dense muscle. 

She smashed the dirt into the top of his head, noogying it in as she screamed at him to put her down this instant. He laughed, sputtering on the tart dirt particles falling down into his mouth. He spun the two of them in circles, going faster and faster with every rotation. He could feel a dent forming in his skull from Rivet’s attack. 

Her fluffy tail whipped around to smack him across the eyes, causing him to trip over his own feet and send the two of them plummeting down. Rivet landed on her ass back onto the column with Ratchet crumpling into a heap of limbs, half on the ground and the other half in her lap. 

The two struggled to catch their breath, Ratchet much more so than Rivet. She was a lot heavier than she looked, he knew that she had a pretty good amount of muscle on her but not that much. The newly learned fact made a distant part of his brain pop a champagne bottle. He shook his head, grimacing.

‘Shut up ,’  he told himself.

He looked forward, noticing that a bit of Rivet’s shirt had hiked up during their battle. It wasn’t much, a good inch exposed at most. It shouldn’t have been enough.

It was enough.

His head shot upwards, mortified at the prospect of Rivet catching him creeping. Thankfully, she wasn’t paying attention; however, this new viewing angle bestowed upon Ratchet caused several more champagne bottles to pop within his head. 

Her head was craned back, mouth slightly open and eyes closed as she slowly caught her breath. A bead of sweat dripped down her forehead, down her nose, down the side of her panting mouth, down her jutted chin, down the thick lines of her neck, and disappeared beneath her collar. Her shirt had dampened under the sweltering heat, crumpling up and slightly sticking to her figure. Faint outlines of hidden curves and strong muscle hid beneath her shirt.

Another bead of sweat dripped down her neck. 

An entire orchestra of champagne bottles were popping in his skull. 

‘Oh.’

He shook his head rapidly, scrambling to his feet and plopping down next to her. He stared at the ground, leg bouncing slightly as his ears refused to stop listening to her catch her breath. A sound which was doing little to put his mind at ease. 

“We… *huff huff* we both lost our sandwiches *huff* you jerk,” Rivet wheezed out, cocking a lazy sharp toothed grin his way. 

Ratchet looked at the scattered sandwich ingredients littering the dirt at their feet. He snorted. “Yeh—your fault,” he muttered. He made a move to scoot a bit further from her after noticing that he had sat a bit closer to her than intended. Just as he began to lean away, Rivet hoisted herself over and flopped down mere inches away from him. Her thigh brushed against his and he felt something in his mind snap. He stared, hard, at his feet.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

He heard Rivet turn her head towards him. “I accept your apology, by the way,” she chuckled.

Ratchet cleared his throat, glancing at her eyes but not quite strong enough to hold contact. “Oh uh…heh wh–what was that about again?” he asked as his brain attempted to rewire itself. 

A small breathy laugh escaped her. Her warmth blossomed across his side as she leaned closer to him. “You being a jerk, as usual,” she said. He felt her breath flit across his throat. 

“Ah,” he said lamely, still staring at his feet. An ant had crawled onto his boot, carrying a tiny piece of salami as it marched on. His eyes followed the little guy’s journey. 

He heard Rivet clear her throat, shifting slightly beside him. “And I guess I’m sorry too,” she muttered. 

He blinked, peeling his eyes away from his foot. “For what?” He asked. 

She rubbed at her neck, a small hint of red peeked through her fur. “I dunno…just–sorry for getting a little snippy with you for a sec there,” she mumbled. 

Ratchet smiled, leaning over to bump her shoulder with his. “Awh what? That? Pssh you’re fine don’t sweat it, been told a lot worse than that,” he laughed. 

“I know, but since we’re already apologizing y’know,” Rivet chuckled. “Oh, sorry too for being so quiet since we sat here, just been thinking about all that for a bit. Been stressing about it since things have settled down honestly,” she explained, looking down at her feet. 

“Again, you’re fine. Little silence isn’t gonna kill me,” he snickered, “don’t stress about all that though, if someone like me could get through that mess then someone like you definitely can,” Ratchet laughed.

“You really think so?” Rivet asked, looking at him uncertainly.

“I know so,” Ratchet smiled.

Rivet beamed back.

She had a nice smile.

Ratchet coughed into his hand “Besides,” he began, “you being all quiet earlier to think about things wasn’t really all that bad. Company is nice so can’t complain too much for lack of conversation,” he mumbled. 

Rivet snorted, he felt her tap a metal fist against his shoulder. “ Awhh ,” she cooed, “look who’s getting all sentimental.” 

“And wow. The moments ruined,” Ratchet mumbled, face blazing. 

She cackled, whipping her head back during her mirth. Ratchet smiled despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t deny she had a cute laugh.

A platonically cute laugh. 

She sighed, leaning heavily into her knees on her elbows. “You’re so easy to tease,” she snickered. 

“Uh huh or have you ever considered that you’re maybe just a complete twerp?” 

“Well! If this isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

Ratchet growled. “One inch,” he seethed, “you have one inch over me.” 

Rivet cackled again.

Ratchet sighed, shaking his head. 

He heard a distant voice in his mind say it could get used to having her around. He heard others shout their agreements. 

“Even still…can’t say you’re wrong though,” he heard her start quietly. Ratchet turned to her, ears turned upwards. She was faced away from him, arms crossed as she stared at something out in the distance. He could just barely make out the edges of a tiny smile on her lips. “The company is really nice,” she finished, glancing at him briefly before looking away. 

Ratchet felt his heart freeze. 

“Really?” He blurted dumbly, teeth clacking shut the moment the words left his mouth. Heat exploded across his face like someone had turned a flamethrower loose on him. 

‘Smooth,’ his mind groaned.

He hadn’t realized she was facing him once more until he felt the soft touch of her breath against his neck. She was close, much, much closer than before. A feather of a touch connected their thighs together, it was enough to send his systems haywire. Her face was inches away from his, her warm breath tickled his jaw and caused muscles in his neck to twitch.  

His eyes met hers, he felt his mouth dry. 

All it would take was one small movement forward. 

He blinked, eyes widening slightly as he processed the thought. All it would take was one small movement forward. Great booming war drums hammered in his ears, his hands shook slightly, his legs felt numb, his chest felt tight, he realized with no small amount of alarm that he felt the need to vomit. 

“Really,” Rivet whispered to him, smiling softly. Ratchet fought with everything he had to somehow muster a smile in return, he could only pray that it didn’t look as shoddy as it felt. She was very close. Very. Very. Close. Had he already realized that? Because she was very close. 

Ratchet tried to stop the wiggling of his nose, fought tooth and claw to stop her scent from flooding his nose to no avail. His mouth went dryer.

He watched her eyes openly roam across his face, taking in his features one by one. Ratchet couldn’t even begin to hope to decipher the complicated swirl of emotions which ran through her eyes. A part of him wanted desperately to find out, the other part—the larger part of him, was scared to death of even stumbling across the first clue. 

He watched her eyes slowly rake down his jaw, sliding down the length of his neck before hitting his collar and beginning their slow ascent. His imagination had him seeing her eyes linger on his lips for a moment, surely the heat was really messing with his head. 

He swallowed thickly, leg bouncing incessantly against the warm marble. Her eyes moved to his leg, squinting at it a bit before smirking softly. She looked back to him, smirk widening before abruptly pulling back, settling a comfortable distance away from him. Taking her warmth and scent with her. 

He blinked, stunned.

Silence fell over the two once more. Ratchet used every bit of power in his brain to try and make any sense of what just happened between them. He came up empty. Just what was that? 

‘I need to…do…something,’ his mind slogged. 

Ratchet opened his mouth, turning his head towards her. She turned to meet him, eyebrow raised slightly. He bit his lip, sucking in his bottom lip before smacking his mouth open again. He sniffed, pushing air up into his top lip before deflating them. 

Rivet stared, a little smile on her face. 

He tapped a fist against his knee, nodding slightly. Rivet nodded along with him, eyebrows raised into her hairline, her little tuft of hair bobbing up and down. He stopped nodding, she stopped nodding. 

“So,” Ratchet started.

“So,” Rivet parroted.

Ratchet’s fist tapped against his knee three times. He pursed his lips, smacking them as a dumb smile formed. 

“So,” Ratchet began again, “since you’re so stressed about not knowing what to do back home, I wish to propose a solution,” he said, arms crossed against his chest, eyes closed sage-like. 

He didn’t elaborate further than that. 

“...And that solution being?” Rivet eventually asked, head tilted. 

“I will…give you my number.” 

‘Smooth.’  

Rivet blinked, ears falling flat against her head before shooting erect. “You’re giving me your number?” She asked, incredulous. A hint of pink now dusted her neck. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Ratchet’s eyes popped open. “Do you not want it?”

Rivet’s eyes widened. “NO!” She blurted, lurching forward. She cringed, gritting her teeth before settling back in her seat. “I mean no—I mean! Yes! I mean yes. Not yes as in I don’t want your number but yes as in uh well yes…I uh…” She sputtered.

“Yea,” Rivet mumbled. 

Ratchet blinked. “So you want—”

“Yes. I want your number.” 

A stiff smile appeared on his face. “Perfect! Er wait—you do have a phone right? Like a phone phone and not a…communicator thingie.” 

“Yes! Yes I uh…yes I have a phone,” her hands pat up and down her legs, “...which I do not. Have on me right now. Kit. Kit got it.” 

“Kit got it?”

“Uh huh.” 

They stared at the ground. 

“So , ” they both said in unison. 

“Oh uh sh—you. You first,” Ratchet babbled. 

“Oh f—no go ahead,” Rivet flabbed.

The two stared. 

Ratchet waved his hands in little circles. “You first.”

“Huh? Right! So…” Rivet clapped her hands together, “What’re we gonna use the uh–the phones for?” She asked with a crooked smile. 

“Oh well just…work stuff. Give you some pointers, tell you what to say to certain people er…yadda yadda yadda,” Ratchet explained lamely. He raised a hand, idly shaking it back and forth between the two. “Like I guess this—this is work stuff. Hero work stuff."

Rivet looked at his hand, eyes widening and head nodding in a way that said she had actually no fucking clue what he possibly could have meant by that.

“Of course, I see,” Rivet ooo’d.  

“Exactly. Normal work stuff between us two,” Ratchet said. 

They were silent again, staring at their feet once more. That ant had returned, this time with three of his friends. The three were trying to carry away a large piece of lettuce together. Ratchet rooted for them. 

“Question,” Rivet suddenly said. 

“Wuzzat?” Ratchet slurred, still watching the ants plan on how they wanted to go about carrying the food. 

“About the phones.”

“Uh huh,” Ratchet hummed. The ants had cut the lettuce into three separate pieces. 

“Are they for like, work use only or can I text you uh outside… of work?” 

Ratchet’s head whipped around. “What was that?” 

“Well I mean—I think our work relationship would…prosper? Yea prosper if I were able to, y’know, text you outside of work,” Rivet blubbered. “Build teamwork and all that good stuff.” 

She wanted to talk to him. Outside of work. She wanted something further than work buddies. 

Ratchet smiled. 

“Well I can’t really see any problems with that,” Ratchet mumbled. 

“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” Rivet muttered, tiny smile planted across her lips. 

Ratchet looked at her, smiling at her smile. “Guess we will,” Ratchet muttered. She smiled wider.

The two looked away from each other, smiling at the dirt in front of them. Ratchet felt her tail wrap around the end of his once more. 

It had taken them, with additional help from Clank and Kit, about four hours to successfully figure out a way for their devices to handle interdimensional text messaging. Shortened version, they stole a cell tower, sawed it down, stuffed it into Ratchet’s garage, and rerouted its signal to bounce off their devices and their devices only. It had been a headache. The testing was an even bigger one.

Some messages were completely lost to the void, others managed to send but somehow along the way the message was rebounded to its original phone causing it to reboot, sometimes the messages flat out failed to send in the first place.

Some responses were received from time to time, much to the excitement of the two mammals; however, their excitement quickly gave way to confusion (and slight terror) whenever they realized the response didn’t come from either Lombax. Some foreign messages were eligible, some were in what seemed to be forgotten languages, and others looked like someone had vomited a bunch of shapes and symbols onto their screens. 

Nonetheless, the system was still created and a few test runs solidified their belief that they were all set. 

Now, all that was left to do was for Rivet to go home. Something which made Ratchet feel…something. He didn’t know what that something was, but there was no part of him which wished to investigate the matter any further. It was normal to be down over a friend leaving, nothing more nothing less.

It was normal to not want that person to leave, it was normal to want to convince them to just sit around for a few more hours with you, it was normal to briefly consider tampering with the Dimensionator so you could spend the next couple hours repairing it with her—all normal things. All platonic things. All friendly friend-o friend things. All buddy buddy things.

She had hugged him right before she had left. Not a little side hug, not a one armed pat on the back, not a little squeeze n dip, no. She had hugged him, an honest to god proper hug. It had all left him a little lightheaded by the end of it. 

She had been pressed far too close to him for him to even begin to even hope to think clearly. He was able to feel every inch of her strong frame pressed flush against his. Her head was tucked away into the crook of his neck, her arms wrapped around his back and gripped at his shoulders, her fur was unbearably soft, her warmth was unbelievably so. Goosebumps riddled his skin as his brain desperately tried to reboot itself.

Every single tiny readjustment from Ratchet to try and get even the smallest modicum of space between the two bodies was met with quick and fierce resistance from Rivet. Every time he moved away, she would chase right after his repeating form, flushing her body tight against his once more. Rivet somehow appeared to be getting closer and closer to him at the end of every one of these dances. It was almost as if the very notion of empty space between their bodies was taboo.

His hands shook at his sides, awkwardly hovering in the air. His face steamed, thick droplets of sweat rolled down his forehead. Slowly, ever so slowly, his stiff hands found themselves upon her shoulders. He rested them there for a moment, absorbing as much of her warmth as he could from the feather light touch as he could. 

He felt her shoulders twitch at the contact, twitching more when his hands remained still as a statue. Taking a risk he didn’t quite understand, he slid his hands down her shoulders, stopping just at the middle of her back. He risked a glance towards her, heart almost leaping from his throat when he found one bright blue eye already staring, half-lidded, back at him. 

He held her gaze, knowing just how easily visible his nerves were. Nerves from what he wasn’t quite sure of. He snaked his arms around her back further, not stopping until she was held securely in his arms. Holding her frustratingly unreadable gaze all the while. 

Held. He was holding her. 

Her eye closed, a small breath escaped her, warming his neck. She snuggled deeper into his embrace. He blinked owlishly, looking down at the arms wrapped around her stupidly. He slowly embraced her closer, raising himself up a bit and resting his head on her strong shoulder. 

This was…nice. He didn’t want this to end.

It ended. 

He still remembered the wink she gave him over her shoulder just before she plip’d away in a flash of bright purple. He stared at the empty space before her. 

He missed her already.

Three whole days would pass before he could muster up the courage to actually text her. He tried finding a believable lie to fool himself with to excuse his cowardnes, he found none. It was around two o’clock in the morning when Rivet’s phone received the first ding from Ratchet. It was four o’clock in the morning for Ratchet when he finally mustered up the courage. 

He had been lying in bed, doing nothing but stare at his grey ceiling for the past three hours. By the time he completed counting how many divots he had on his ceiling for the thirty-second time (four hundred and twenty three), he lazily reached out for the phone left charging on his nightstand. As much as he abhorred social media, maybe a few minutes of mindless scrolling would knock him out?

He powered the device to life, tapping in his password and prepared to swipe through his options on the home screen. His eyebrows rose, this…wasn’t his home page. He sat up a bit straighter, bringing the screen closer to his face. The mystery page was a contact page— Rivet’s contact page. Ratchet balked, releasing a tiny yelp as he hastily swiped out of the page.

He held the phone to his chest, chewing on his lip anxiously. He groaned, he did not want to think about her right now. His head burrowed deeper into his pillow with another groan as he mulled over the current predicament. His teeth played with the flesh of his cheek. 

No, he decided, he would not be texting her. 

It was far, far too late to send her a message. Stalling or not no one would appreciate a text at this ridiculously late hour, especially a text from a work acquaintance. He shouldn’t even be thinking about texting or not texting Rivet right now, instead he should be all wrapped up under his comfy blanket and asleep. He should be preparing for the arduous slog of tomorrow, not wasting precious hours of sleep over some coworker. 

So what if her hugs were nice and her laugh was nicer. So what.

His fingers drummed against his phone. 

No.

He will not text her. 

Ratchet put the phone back on his dresser with a huff, grabbing his blanket and turning away from the device.

…

“I’ll just…check my to-do list,” Ratchet muttered, spinning around to pluck the phone away. 

His phone came to life once more, the light momentarily blinding him. A few taps later he found himself on his to-do list. “Now, let’s see what’s on the agen—”

There was only one single task on his list. 

( ) Text Rivet.

A hard breath was blown from his nose. 

…

God damnit.

He blinked and he was back on her contact page. His thumb numbly tapped the ‘Send Message’ icon near the top of the display. Ratchet was greeted by an empty conversion log. A little blinking cursor sat alone in the message bar. He swallowed thickly before typing out a brief greeting.

- Hello, Rivet.

He stared, chewing on his lip. No. Too formal.

- hello rivet

He chewed some more. No. Still too stiff.

- hello riv

…Better. They were on a first name basis at this point right? They did seem a bit closer than your average coworkers. He shook his head, deleting the message before hobbling together a new one. 

- hey riv 

He squinted. Tap tap tap

- hey riv :)

…sure?

His thumb smashed down on the ‘send’ button and immediately tossed the phone to the side. Quickly reaching out and turning it over when it landed right-side-up. Ratchet leaned into his bed, hands covering his eyes. He groaned, pushing his palms into his sockets. “Was the smiley face really necessary?” He moaned to himself. 

He flipped over dramatically, flopping his face into his pillow and letting out another, this time muffled, groan of absolute anguish. He prayed she was asleep, he prayed that she wouldn’t ever see the message, he prayed her phone would spontaneously combust into a cloud of smoke. 

A sharp ding came from his phone, heart dropping as he realized his prayers were ignored. Ratchet lay there for a few moments, completely still. Once his brain finally registered what exactly caused that sharp ding, he rocketed upwards. Ratchet made a strangled noise as he scrambled to sit up straight, arms flailing about getting himself tangled in his blanket. 

He whipped his head towards his phone, face absolutely gobsmacked. No way she already responded. He had just texted her! Not even a full minute passed!

He swiped the phone up, holding it close to his chest in his clammy hands for a few moments before deciding to risk a quick peek at the screen. He hadn’t gotten past the third letter in Rivet’s name before he yelped and sharply angled the screen away from his eyes. 

He held the phone away from him, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes, breathing in deep before slowly letting it out. “It’s just Rivet,” he whispered to himself, “you can do this man come on.”

He raised the phone to his face. “...You can do this,” he whispered. 

His face contorted into a grimace as he turned the phone on, fearing the absolute worst.

- hey hotshot :)

He grinned. 

Ratchet blinked, knocking himself out of what seemed like such a distant memory. His hand still ached, reminding him of his tantrum earlier. Dull waves of pain passed through his fist with every beat of his heart. He looked up, jumping back a bit when he came face to face to the purple chassis of the Dimensionator. 

His eyes widened, whirling around to take in his new surroundings. Miscellaneous tools, old weapons, crates upon crates filled to the brim with random junk, numerous gears and bolts littering the floor, and a little dingy ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. The light of which casted the small grey room in a slightly sickly yellow. 

Storage room. He had wandered into his storage room.

He turned back towards the Dimensionator, squinting his eyes at it in contempt. He stuck a hand out, rubbing two gloved fingers up and down the side of the device. His fingers stilled, trembling slightly before pulling away.  

Ratchet put his hands on his hips, shaking his head slightly at the machine. “Piece of junk,” he muttered, “I outta throw you out already.” 

He walked around it, looking at it from all angles. He pulled flaps back, flicked at loose screws, rubbed away smudge marks—just fiddling with the thing as he regarded it. He laid his hand flat against the top of it, face contorting into a scowl.

“I,” he began, “do not like you.”

He raised his hand, slapping it against the top of the machine once more. “I really do not like you.” 

Ratchet is reminded of too many things he’d much rather not be reminded of just by staring at the infernal device’s chassis. 

“No,” he told himself, “No. Don’t think about that. You were just thinking about such nice things, think of—”

BZZZT! BZZZT! BZZZT!

Ratchet’s left hand was vibrating.

His ear flicked, neck cringing at the odd vibrating sensation worming its way up his harm. His eyes peeled away from the Dimensionator, settling onto the phone gripped in his hand. It was still buzzing. 

He raised it, squinting lightly at the screen as he processed just what it was his itchy eyes were seeing. Oh, Rivet was trying to video call him.

He lowered the phone, smacking his lips lazily as he idly glanced around. His eyebrows pinched together.

‘Wait what?’

Ratchet choked on his spit, sputtering in place before yanking the phone back to his eyes. There was a picture of Rivet, despite his manic state he couldn’t help the small smile from reaching him if he tried.

It was a selfie she had sent him some time ago during one of their many phone calls. She was standing on some poor excuse of a ‘beach’ she and Kit had stumbled upon in one of the quieter corners of Sargasso. She wore a loose grey t-shirt and this dumb little black hat sat atop her head. Her stupid little tuft of hair was poking out the front of it, looking a bit disheveled. Her ears were a bit crooked due to the hat, seemed like it was just about a size too small for her head. 

The thing which still took his breath away even today was the big dumb smile stuck on her face. Her big blue eyes were squinted from just how hard she was smiling, her fangs peeked out from just behind her lips. Ratchet had been floored when he first saw the picture, it had floored him even more so now. 

Her metallic hand was raised into frame, giving the camera a peace sign. Kit could be seen somewhat off in the background, excitedly holding up what looked like a shell (it was actually an abnormally shaped rock, bless her heart) for the world to see.

Ratchet stared down at the picture, a whirlwind of emotions tearing through his chest. 

He missed her.

He took a quick glance in front of him, eyes settling onto the form of the Dimensionator. He reached out slowly, resting his hand atop its surface.

Ratchet sucked a breath between his teeth, rapping his hand against the machine.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered. 

His thumb pressed ‘answer.’